For all the broken, a love letter.

Here I am, a month after deciding to never write again.

I have grieved hot collar soaked tears for accusations of my writing being “abusive” and “selfish,” a deer in massive confusion, headlights, big moving powerful blows to the body and soul have come out of nowhere, just me, licking my wounds, wondering what the fuck just happened.

If only I had been hit by a car.

I was afraid the intentions of my heart would never be shown, that if being known for 33 years brought this much adversity over my views on life and my journey, and I had lost valuable relationships because of that, well, I just gave up.

I gave in.

Beautiful things occurred as well, not just my relationship with Thelma, or the promise of our hard work beginning to take exciting new turns, my girls a daily part of me now, and sleep, I had gotten down to three numbers on my phone, even that had felt overwhelming.

The best news is that Lola and I share a room, and bunk beds, a post I can’t wait to write, for another day.

Tonight is about the pull to myself, writing being the nucleus to my soul, and I made a decision to that soul, the shame, the fear.

I will write, rather it be harmful, selfish, abusive, or cruel.

I am not responsible for the people I have caused pain, for they chose to read, and they chose to leave. I am only responsible for me, and if one day, I see that I was wrong, I will write about that as well, asking all my jurors and God, supposedly the ultimate Judge, for forgiveness.

I got a letter from my father, just a few hours ago, hence my inability to sleep, my frustration over my first post written with joy in my mind is now erased, his words replaced.

I have no doubt in my vulnerability been seen or read, and even with that, I ask how writing this horrible little blog could ever have served me, for if I were selfish, I would have kept my secrets and image, my relationships in tact, my little lie of a life safe.

Not today, nor tonight, the wound so deeply cut I want to run and run, like Jenny in Forrest Gump, get on a bus and ask God to make me a bird to fly far far away, a fist of stones I would throw, straight at him for wanting to hurt me again and again, straight at her for saying she loved me, when I weep for like a little girl, I don’t even care..

I want my mommy to tell me love is something real.

And she won’t even pick up the phone, nor return my last email, in which I begged like a pathetic teen for a boy who didn’t love her, to come back, to just please forget it all, say she was sorry, and do the right thing.

“Come back to me,” I cry, and she isn’t and won’t, the reality I sit in tonight, wondering what the fuck this God means by salvation, love, mercy, and hope, the very things she taught me, all the verses memorized still run through my mind.

I know something amazing will show up from this, in my silly positive little jar of bullshit or fath that removes all mountains, which I don’t know, but I will hold on to it, and wait.

If I can get through this night, the loss, the silence, maybe just maybe, God will arrive.

Voices laugh and snarl that I am an idiot to hope, not for one more soul, but tonight I climb on the top bunk, as promised, with Lola, who along with Kat, are the best things I ever did.

“Mama,” she whispered.

“Yes, baby?” I had the night light on so I could read the other night.

Her little red head popped over the top bunk, and she put her hands up in animation, “YOU are the best roomie I could ever have. I could just cry over how you made our room so fancy.”

I had given Kat her own bedroom, for which she in exasperation and tears, rightfully claimed her sister could not respect her stuff, talked too much, was messy, and stole her things.

She has become alive in my room, while Lola, in a room with my heels and real make up and art supplies, chats and chats, both of us in constant trouble for forgetting over and over again, to not talk.

I had thought just the other day, how I was ready to come back, to write about how no woman in a house full of treasure and closets as big as my room had what I had.

My heart is broken as well as my silly dreams but I will not let them take my joy.

I will die before I give it away, and if it takes all that I am and have, I will not just survive this, I will float.

The first thing I wrote on the Happy Wall is appropriate now, its message I never knew would vibrate so strongly, “God doesn’t give us victory over war. He raises us off the batte field.”

Good night, dear cyber hearts, I need you more than ever, and it is an honor to return to you, for you have been loyal on your end, and I deserve that gift, and hope and pray I am not what they say, but that someone out there, in this cold heartless world, will be seen, changed, not alone, soothed, or inspired.

It is all I have left.

Forrest, the Ultimate Spiritual Leader

Things with God and I started off a little rocky. I remember my mom saying I did not want to go to hell, that I sat on her lap, told her this, ready to accept Jesus into my heart at four. I do remember not wanting to go to hell.
I wasn’t quite sure how he was going to physically come into my heart, foot or head first, but if it was going to keep my flesh from burning, and demons from gobbling me up well, I was willing to take the risk. I was never a dumb kid. I knew I would be the first to go, so thank God, I was in Baptist land and not the religion where only a few hundred thousand get in, even though I am still a little suspicious heaven sounds that awesome. Lions and lambs lying together on streets of Gold in harmony? Meeting up with grandmas and uncles you didn’t even like alive? Really? A trip to Vegas sounds a lot more fun. Then, as all kids who decide not to burn in hell forever, there is this ritual where you are publicly dunked in a big bowl of water for proof. Everyone clapped and I got cake.
I tried to love it, really I did, especially for my mom, who cried every Sunday, tears running down her face from the hymns, her faith big and golden, “rainbowic,” the name I just made up for it, but I felt like a total fraud. Every time they played “Just as I am,” I went down and got saved again, hoping the preacher wouldn’t feel bad.
Plus, I was starving. It was the beginning of me questioning organized religion, something I always have done, but at the same time, I was always aware of this presence so much greater than me, unexplainable, like a tap on my shoulder when even church people were nowhere to be found, and I must say it was confusing as hell.
And He was always changing his mind about big important stuff for a little girl.
One day, He would tell mom I was supposed to move schools, or not go to camp, or wait till I was married to some “spiritual leader,” a boy pointed out by all the approving church officials, with pimples, trying to have sex with me in the parking lot. Oh, and we were supposed to have these “messages,” because we were “saved” and the non believers needed us. Well, it seemed to me, at least from the back of our childhood van, you pass more churches in the South than you do nail salons and gas stations combined, so how the word wasn’t getting out, I wasn’t sure.
I love the church messages to this day. Seriously, they are hysterical and I wish I were undercover, just to see what the meetings are like when they come up with this stuff. They are clever, in a warped kind of clever, wrapped in good intentions, like, “You think it’s hot here? GOD.”
Not to mention the messages for Christ I had acquired by eighth grade felt really lame, but I went on the mission trip to Jamaica and sang songs for the Lord, but I was always doubtful that they got the message, because I wasn’t even sure what the message was. They did like my pretty blond hair, which they rubbed and touched, sitting on my lap, in poverty. I wondered if they knew more about this Jesus than I did, a glow from their center touching me, and I was pretty sure when I got home to the Tower of Babel, the private name I gave my church, I was right.
I couldn’t stomach the building funds, the DEBT, the growing of other churches when we hadn’t paid off the big screen t.v.’s in front of us, the rows and rows of white people, all the same, nodding their heads, the “Amens.”
I couldn’t stomach it.
Years later, Divorcee and I starting a family thought we were doing Kat a disservice by not going, and so we tried.
I really put my heart into it, and I will never forget the sick feeling of being inauthentic when we had “child dedication” day, holding her to the preacher to be blessed on her little Spiritual path.
She was only 18 months old. But, it brought me back to my own familiar path.
I remember everyone clapped and she loved the cake.
After doing the small groups, Divorcee and I came to the realization that we couldn’t, not that we didn’t want to, but it was impossible for my spirit to thrive there. I do not make judgments about organized religion, any of them, for I see how they serve a purpose, how so many people are loving, kind, serving, and true. They matter to many people in this world and this blog is no disrespect for them or their calling, the love of God is bigger than anything I know, and as always, the more I know the less I know.
I do know this.
I feel a lot like Jenny from “Forrest Gump,” throwing rocks at her home, screaming to God to make her a bird to fly far far away, walking the tight rope of darkness and destruction. Just like my other favorite character, with no legs, bitter and a raging alcoholic, they both seemed to look at the world through a different lens, one with a lot of anger, pain, but in the end, redemption.
Forrest, always seemed to have it, a purity so real and authentic, that him sitting in church was just as righteous and innocent as one can find, but I finally made my peace that I am not Forrest, have never been him, as much as I have tried. I am Jenny, and in the end, just like my favorite scene with Dan, floating without legs, and laughing, have found my peace with God.
And what I love most about God, Jenny, Dan, and Forrest.
It doesn’t even matter.
We are all loved just the same.